You're Just Like Me
by Unwarranted Reference
Summary: Sherlock and John meet a remarkable young girl, who's resemblance to Sherlock is uncanny. She's insufferable and far from modest, and yet her heart is just about the most earnest John's ever seen. Sherlock isn't too convinced of her cheery facade, and both men learn that this short, rude, remarkable heap requires, above all else, love.
1. Prologue, Janice's Story

_The rain came down slowly, but with unsettling force. The dame before me looked concerned, but I quickly assured her that I was alright. She looked just as frazzled as I felt, but since I, Janice Fredrick Jones, have long abandoned the idea of showing weakness, I was certain she couldn't tell. _

Janice was drenched head to toe, shaking like a chihuahua as Mrs Hudson stared at her, her face a mask of concern and dismay.

''Oh, dear, are you alright, my child?'' she asked, and Janice stared at her for a moment, as though she had no clue what was going on, then tried to compose herself.

''Oh, nah, I'm fine.'' she insisted, her voice thick with an unmistakable Boston accent that Mrs. Hudson was sure to never understand.

''I was just wondering if you had an available flat.'' Janice said. Mrs Hudson stared at the child. She could be no older than fourteen and if she was, she was horrifically short for her age.

''Well, yes, I do. Of course. Why? Is your mum coming 'round later?'' Mrs Hudson asked. Janice shook her head.

''No doubt she would, if I had one. But it's just me.'' she explained, extracting a thick wad of cash from the inside of her trench coat, that was a bit big on her.

''Would that be a problem?'' she questioned, looking up at Mrs Hudson from under her brown fedora. Mrs Hudson knew from experience that asking why someone was moving in was ludicrous, since the question was almost always met with a lie or sharp retort, so she shook her head and accepted the money as it was thrust into her hands.

''Of course not, dear. Come, come, out of that rain before you catch a cold.'' she insisted, placing a gentle hand on the girl's shoulder. ''I'm Mrs Hudson, by the way.''

''Nice you meet you, Mrs Hudson. I'm Janice.'' Janice said, smiling up at the woman. She led Janice into the building, and showed her a flat just above the one that belonged to a certain detective-doctor duo. Janice had met women like Mrs Hudson before. They gave her a place to sleep, old clothes if they had them, food in the morning, and became very attached to her in a few weeks, if she stayed that long. She normally didn't. She didn't like to hurt people.

But, since Mrs Hudson wasn't living in an old house on the country side, the probability of her getting attached to Janice was low. Janice looked around. The room wasn't the best she'd ever seen, but it definitely wasn't the worst. It was honestly rather nice. She'd hole up in here for awhile. Maybe even decide to stay. Shaking her head, Janice knew the later would never happen. She'd never had a true reason for staying anywhere in her short fifteen years of life.

She was an extraordinary thing. She'd gotten into England by hitching a ride on some sort of cargo plane that was most likely carrying drugs. (And she hadn't felt guilty informing the police of the pilot's whereabouts.) She only had a duffel bag of clothes and other things she either saved for sentiment or truly needed. Janice nodded at Mrs Hudson.

''It's very nice. I'll take it.'' was all she said, and Mrs Hudson nodded and left her to her own devices.

''If you'd like, I'll make you a cuppa!'' she called from downstairs.

''Thank you, Mrs Hudson, but you don't have to. After all, you're not my housekeeper.'' Janice called back politely. There was a mirror in the far corner of the room. She stared at it, then looked away in disgust.

She threw her duffel bag on the small mattress and began removing things from it, starting with a shiny new handgun. She observed it for a moment. It reminded her of her father. He was killed by a drug dealer with a gun just like this one when she was only five.

Her father was a lawyer, so she had some knowledge regarding law. If you were found at the scene when you had no reason to be there, you became prime suspect. Janice had packed her things and fled when she'd heard that someone called the police, unaware that no one would arrest an eight year old, even if they were a git of the highest order. She immediately got on a train, in an empty caboose along with a few cats and a lot of hay.

Over the years, she had done and seen many unspeakable things. When she turned nine, she became attached to a raggedy brown duffel bag she'd found when her tiny princess backpack had become too childish and too small for her things. And then at ten, she acquired her trusty trench coat and her fedora, given to her by an old Texan lady who's boy had passed away. Janice reminded her of him. The coat was still too big on her, even after all those years. But she liked it that way.

Janice sat down on the mattress. She sighed. She needed to stay some place. She couldn't keep hopping about. The longest she'd ever spent in one place was two years, in China, not because she was intending to go there, but because she'd fallen asleep in yet another drug plane. That was the first time she'd ever hitched a ride. It became a habit. She arrived sleepy and terrified. That was when she was eleven. A young man had offered to teach her a few self defense moves, after his mother had given her a small room to sleep in. His name was Cheng.

A few moves taught every now and then eventually became something more. She wanted to master the entire art. She knew that she would have to leave soon, so she trained each day harder and harder. Every night she felt like she was going to collapse. But she soon graduated from Cheng's own personal school. The only student was her. He hated to see her go, she knew, but she didn't want to stay in one place for long. She left on the same cargo plane, coincidentally.

But thanks to her two years in China, she now spoke Mandarin fluently. She actually spoke a number of languages. They were her obsession. The only thing she could excel at without even trying. The only thing she was truly good at. (Other than amateur detective work.) She was currently teaching herself German. She'd gone to a library nearby and got a library card. That way, she was able to check out many books about the language. She may not be intending to stay at 221B Baker Street, but maybe she would stay in England. She nodded. Yes, she would. She would stay in England. Or, at least, in the United Kingdom.

With that in mind, she resumed unpacking. Despite how dire her situation seemed, she actually did have a few luxury items. She'd done a few favors and they were gifted to her. An MP3 player for catching a crook somewhere in France, an old but still functional laptop along with it (obviously the man that gave it to her had just bought a new one, and thought 'why not?') and a fairly new cellular phone that a petite Russian girl gave her, possibly not because Janice had found her missing dog, but because she was bored of it. She was extremely spoiled.

Janice liked to call herself a detective. Her deductive skills were extraordinary, really, so she frequently put them into practice. Partly to gain praise, (since she was still young and had some right to the childish desire for acknowledgment) but mostly for money. You can't live in this world without money. She'd learned that the hard way. As she sat on her small mattress, she racked her brain. What should she do? She knew for sure that she'd be staying in the country. But where? In this flat? Settle down? Stop hopping about like a rabbit? She shook her head. The idea might seem reasonable now, but soon she'd grow bored. She always did.

**Author's Note: This is, of course, a prologue. Sherlock and John will be appearing in the next chapter. This is just to show you what Janice is like. I started to write this because after watching the second Episode of Sherlock, it just popped up in my mind and I thought 'Why not?' This will be the first fanfic I ever post. Not the first one I've ever written. I hope you like it so far**.


	2. Skills of Deduction

**John**

Early morning sunshine peaked through his curtains as John Watson shuffled about on his bed, trying to avoid the glaring light. He reluctantly dragged himself out of bed and stretched, feeling something inside him crack. He winced. That could not be good. Oh well. He'd take some pills for it. After getting dressed, John went downstairs for a cup of tea.

And to check on Sherlock. He put the kettle on and peered into the other room. Sherlock was thinking. Though he's always thinking one way or another, John knew that this kind of thinking was different. Sherlock was wrestling with that brilliant brain of his, and, judging by those five nicotine patches he was nursing, losing.

John knew better than to disturb the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock lay quietly upon the sofa, eyes shut, hands folded. John could almost hear Sherlock's brain working. Not gears shifting, no. That was the way a peasant's brain worked. Sherlock's mind was a high tech computer. Computing, analyzing, scanning, observing. Saving and disposing of various information. It was fascinating, to say the least.

''Shut up.'' came Sherlock's deep baritone from the sofa.

''Pardon?'' John said, bemused. ''I haven't said anything.'' he protested, sipping his tea.

''As I've mentioned before, John, you are thinking, and it is annoying.'' Sherlock muttered, drumming his fingers together. John, of course, didn't hear a word Sherlock said.

''Don't mumble, Sherlock.'' he said, frowning. ''I couldn't hear a word you said.'' Sherlock's eyes snapped open. There was a pregnant pause. He shut his eyes.

''Sorry.'' he said, louder and clearer than when he'd complained of John's apparently loud thinking. John couldn't believe his ears.

''...What?''

''You know I hate repeating myself, John. I said 'sorry'.'' Sherlock snapped, his eyes flashing open once again.

''Sorry, sorry, I know that.'' he said, sheepishly although Sherlock was being fairly unreasonable, as always.

''I just couldn't believe you for a moment. The Great and Mighty Sherlock Holmes? Apologizing for something? It's unheard of.'' John remarked, suspicious. ''You've done something else, haven't you? Will a corpse be waiting for me when I go to get my biscuits?'' he demanded. Sherlock only sniffed at him.

''Of course not. A whole corpse, while delightfully promising, would not fit in that refrigerator unless I'd pulled every single item from it, and Mrs Hudson had a fit the last time I did that. You remember.'' John remembered. Mrs Hudson went into a long rant of how Sherlock shouldn't do such things, how it was unsanitary and that the food would spoil, and John could honestly say she was afraid of her in that moment. Not even Sherlock had dared to tell her to shut up.

''Then there's nothing. Why would you apologize, then?'' he said, mostly to himself. Sherlock didn't answer. ''Well, never mind that. It's unnatural.'' he declared, receiving a bristling glare from the detective. John continued drinking his tea, unfazed. Suddenly, a burst of music shook the flat.

_Just take those old records off the shelf _  
_I'll sit and listen to 'em by myself _  
_Today's music ain't got the same soul _  
_I like that old time rock 'n' roll _

Sherlock's glare worsened. ''What the bloody hell is that?'' John demanded, covering his ears.

''Dammit, John, if I knew I would have told you the minute I heard it!'' Sherlock snapped. John had to silently agree.

''Tasteless, music, obviously!'' Sherlock said. It wasn't awfully loud, but enough to annoy both men. The music stopped, followed by a frustrated curse and a loud bang. Sherlock and John glanced at each other inquisitively. ''Someone's moved into the other room upstairs.'' Sherlock deduced, and John gave him a Look.

''No shit, Sherlock.''

**Janice**

Janice fumbled about the room, searching for an outlet to charge her phone. She would need to go out later and put some more minutes into it. Or at least get unlimited texting. As she looked on her knees, to check if there was one somewhere under the bed, she dropped the phone, which hit something and loud rock music blared out of it. Damn her luck, she'd decided to hook it up to a small speaker she'd found in the room, just to see if it would work. For such a small thing, it packed a loud punch. Well, that experiment was obviously solved and her hypothesis was, as usual, correct. But did it have to be proven in such a startling manner?

She heard a muffled shout from the downstairs, and let out a huff of annoyance, groping around to find the damned phone and shut it off. After the music was gone, she kept feeling around for an outlet. When she found one, her eyes narrowed, and she spent two minutes trying to plug it in. She grinned to herself upon achieving a plugged in phone, and swiftly lifted her head to escape the uncomfortable, dusty darkness.

She moved too fast, and as a result, she smacked her head into the metal beam. She rose, clutching her head, and stumbled backward, dizzily bumping into a dresser. She noticed she'd knocked it down, and soon joined it on the floor, now clutching her side in obvious pain. In her momentary disorientation, she managed to grab onto the window ledge and pull herself up.

''Shit...'' she cursed, touching the side of her head and seeing blood on her fingers. She didn't have any band-aids. She paused to think. What could she do? Downstairs. Perhaps the person (or people) downstairs had band-aids. She nodded to herself. Most people would think her antisocial, and they were right. The only things she really opened up to were babies and kids much younger than her. They weren't liars or cheats or idiots...

Well, they were idiots. But they didn't choose to be. There was so much to learn, and they were always eager for information. It's the adults that choose to be idiots, and that infuriated her. With this in mind, she trotted down the stairs, covering her wound. She still had her hat and trench coat on when she noticed an open door and assumed that it lead to the flat she was looking for. She took a single step toward the doorway, not inside but not outside either.

''Hello?'' she asked cautiously. A man with short blond hair peeked his head from what she presumed was a kitchen.

''Oh, hello. Are you hear to see Sherlock?'' he asked. Janice had no idea who Sherlock was, so she shook her head and managed a small, sheepish smile.

''No, not really. Sorry to bother you so early. I came to apologize about the ruckus a few moments earlier, and also to ask if you had any band-aids.'' she said, giving the man a once over. He was obviously an army doctor, recently sent back from Afghanistan or Iraq because of a bullet wound in his left shoulder. She fought back the urge to ask which while he thought for a moment.

''Yes, I believe we do. Have you cut yourself?'' he asked. Janice revealed the bloody area of her head, and he winced. ''Oh, that doesn't look like it feels pleasant. Here, let me help you.'' he said, gesturing for her to follow him to a living room, where he pulled a first aid kit from under a chair.

''What is it, John? A case?'' Janice spun around at the deep baritone voice and saw a pale man with abnormally soft looking curly black hair.

''Not this time, Sherlock.'' John rolled his eyes, and pulled up a chair for Janice to sit in.

''_It_ is a _she_, and it- _She_ is hurt.'' John informed. Janice sat on chair and allowed John to work. It wasn't long before she was fighting back sounds of discomfort due to the cotton ball pressed to her forehead. Whatever John had dipped it in, it stung like hell. So she knew the names of the two men, but not both of their back stories. Interesting.

John = Former Army Doctor. Obviously. Sherlock= ? She narrowed her eyes at Sherlock. She couldn't deduce anything of him. Why not? Why was he so difficult? She shut her eyes tight. _Think think think think think think DAMMIT._ Dammit. Nothing. She shook her head, which made John tut and ask her gently to stay still. She did. She looked up without moving her head this time. ''Afghanistan or Iraq?''

**John**

John froze. He thought he'd never hear those words again. Not from any mouth other than Sherlock's. Sherlock's eyes snapped open. John knew he was itching to say something.

''I'm sorry, what?'' John asked the girl he was healing, in case he hadn't heard correctly.

''Afghanistan or Iraq?'' came the question again, this time slower and louder, as if the girl thought he didn't hear well in general. John was, needless to say, flabbergasted.

''Afghanistan...'' he answered. The girl looked immensely pleased.

''Of course.'' she replied. ''Of course.'' John stared at her. How could she possibly have known that? God forbid she had the same keen abilities as Sherlock. Not another one, dear God.

''How did you know?'' The girl gave him a strange look.

''Obvious, wasn't it? The way you carry yourself says former soldier. Tending to the blood on my forehead. Anyone could have done this. But you work with precision. You don't tremble or fumble about as if you're not sure of what you're doing. You've seen things much more difficult than a tiny forehead scratch, haven't you, Doctor?'' She should have been out of breath after saying all of that in one sitting, but of course, she wasn't. That and the way she stared at John with those cold, calculating eyes was so uncannily Sherlockian, and frankly, it made John shudder. Sherlock choose then to speak.

''Anything else? What else can you notice from him?'' he asked. John was about to demand he not encourage her. The girl glanced at him, then stared hard at John.

''His left shoulder. He was sent back to London because of a gunshot wound in his left shoulder.'' she said. John stared at her.

''Brilliant. It's brilliant.'' John said, just a bit too loudly. Sherlock's scoff was dark and he leaped up from the couch.

''A child.'' he said. The girl glowered at him, daring him to explain. ''You're just a child. Where is your mother? I doubt she'd be too pleased to know you were in a flat that belongs to two strange men.'' he said, looking only faintly smug, as though the mention of a mother would faze her.

''I haven't got one.''

''Yes, I know you haven't got one, it was a trick question.''

''Naturally. Now, explain how you know I haven't got a mother.'' And Sherlock did.

''Look at you. The slump when you sit, and don't think I haven't noticed how you walk. You're grieving. You refuse to show it but you are. It could be a father, but I suspect something worse happened to him so you're blocking it in favor of remembering your dead mother, aren't you?'' The girl stared at him.

''Spot on. You're good.'' she said suspiciously.

''I know I am.'' Sherlock said, definitely smug this time. The girl shook her head.

''Anything else? What else can you notice from me?'' she said, obviously quoting Sherlock directly and spreading her hands as if to say, 'read me, I'm an open book.' Sherlock didn't miss a beat.

''Your coat. Obviously twenty plus years old. But you can't be that old, so it was given to you, then, not bought. Same goes for your hat. They've been recently laundered. So, you keep them clean.'' Sherlock said, pausing for a moment to glance at John, then back at the girl.

''You treat them as gently as you can, but circumstance has forced them to look worn and unkempt.'' Sherlock deduced, staring into the the girl's eyes, and she stared back, scowling.

''Exactly. Right.'' she muttered, not looking away from the detective for a minute.

''Anything else?'' she demanded. Sherlock looked her over again.

''Your hair.''

''What of it?''

''It is abnormally long. The only way you can keep it from getting in your way when you walk is to put it in that braid.''

''That it is and that I must.''

''You haven't cut it in years.''

''Never cut it at all.''

''I knew it.''

''I'm certain you did.'' The girl shot back. John watched the exchange, feeling dizzy and he carefully placed a band-aid over the girl's seemingly long forgotten scratch. The girl gave him a grateful look.

''Well, if you're quite finished, my name's Janice Fredrick Jones. Thank you, Doctor. I'll be on my way now.'' she said, standing up and giving Sherlock a pointed look. John nodded at her.

''Yes, of course. You can call me John, by the way.'' John offered, and Janice nodded.

''Ah, yes, I'll make sure to do so next time.'' she said, winking before walking out the door. John instantly flashed back to when he met Sherlock.

''It's uncanny.'' he said finally, after a few moments. Sherlock said nothing, returning to his place on the couch and adding a sixth nicotine patch.

**Author's Note: Well, here it is. Chapter two. I'm certain I have at least one reader by now. That's comforting. So, one reader, I hope you like this one. More to come soon. My apologies if you find it short.**


	3. The Lust for a Case

**Janice**

Janice raced up the stairs, running away from that flat, feeling a mix of fear and confusion. She'd kept herself in check while she was in sight, but now her eyes flashed wide with horror as she slammed her door and locked it. She sank back against it, her wild eyes shutting to take in what had just happened. She'd never met a human like that in her life whose deductive skills were immensely better than her's.

She supposed it was inevitable. She was only fifteen. This Sherlock character was much older than her. But she was immature. She didn't want someone out there to be better than her. But you didn't always get what you wanted. That was another thing she'd learned the hard way. Everything she'd learned had been the hard way.

She sighed, noticing that she'd sunk down onto the floor with her back pressed against the door. She shook her head. Leave it to her to be so selfish. This man was obviously better than her. She supposed he was a detective. An expensive one at that, if he'd managed to read her while she couldn't even guess about him.

Janice's momentary fear faded away, leaving her with a racing mind. Everything sunk in now. She hadn't even thought about it when she came to London. Hadn't thought about what she'd do, if there was a case she'd need to solve. It was hard to function when there was nothing to function on. She stood up and brushed her coat off. She'd need to advertise, then. That wouldn't be hard, would it? Of course not. With that, she went to her laptop and started writing a blog.

_Five Days Later_

This was incredibly hard. Five days, exactly five, had passed and still no client. She received mail, however. Lots of it. All of it about how she was merely a 'Sherlock Holmes' wannabe. She looked at the stack of envelopes on her desk, and sighed. What on earth made Sherlock Holmes so damned special? She was just as good a detective as he was, wasn't she?

No. Of course that wasn't true. He was better, obviously. The hate mail proved that. The fact that she didn't have a case proved that. The evidence strongly suggested it. She sighed again, dropping onto her mattress and burying her face in her hands. She was on the verge of giving up.

All of a sudden staying in London was a horrible idea to her. But she was stuck here for a while. She repeatedly hit her forehead gently with her closed fist. How could she have gotten into this? She needed to pay rent at the end of the month. She needed a case. She needed some goddamn adventure. Two months was far too long to go like this. She needed an opportunity to think and think hard or she'd go insane.

Too young to smoke and she didn't have any connections in London to get her a pack. Too young to drink, and her fake I.D wouldn't work. She'd have to get the mail again this morning. Lovely. She put her coat on and stormed down the stairs, a scowl on her face. She fetched the mail, leaving anything that was for Dr Watson or Mr Holmes. On the way toward the stairs, she bumped into John Watson himself, which caused both of them to drop what was in their hands. A key and her mail fell to the ground. She sighed.

''Pardon me, John, I wasn't looking where I was going.'' she said, even though she was. She gathered her mail and gave John his key. He blinked at her.

''Oh, no, it's fine. It was my fault.'' he said. Janice nodded once and peered at the key she'd given John. John was looking at her mail.

''That is an awful lot of mail. Fans, I suppose?'' he teased. Him and Janice had often gone for tea and that sort of thing for the past week. Nothing romantic, obviously, since he was much older than her. Just to chat and talk about the cases John and Sherlock had solved together. They had become fast friends. Janice shook her head.

''Quite the opposite John. It seems I have some hate mail this morning.'' she chuckled. John frowned.

''Hate mail? For what?'' he asked. Janice faltered. The words had come spilling out like vomit, she hadn't intended to tell John at all. She wondered if she should tell John why she was receiving hate mail. Oh, whatever. It wasn't like anything would become of it. She'd tell John, John would express pity, and they'd go on their merry way.

''I started a blog.'' she said. John's frown grew deeper.

''...And?''

''And apparently there already is a crime solving detective at 221B Baker Street.'' she said, patting John on the shoulder. ''Good day, John. See you later.'' she said, marching off up the stairs.

Janice was starting to go insane. Four weeks. Four. Weeks. Twenty seven days without a real case. She'd managed to get some kids asking about missing dogs and such, and their parents payed a generous amount of money, which she would use to pay rent and find some idiotic adult to buy her cigarettes.

But a case... A real, true, mind wearing case. Something... Something that would break her. Not completely. Just until that one exhilarating moment where she figured everything out and breathed in the sweet scent of realization. That rush she felt. God, she needed it. She ached for it, arms crossed and feet tapping rapidly.

A knock at her door captured her attention. ''Mrs Hudson, if that's you, I must inform you that I truly need to be alone at the moment. God knows how I may react to human interaction.'' Janice said in the sweetest voice she could muster, though it still felt bitter on her tongue.

''It's Sherlock.'' Before she could even stop herself, she was marching toward the door and swinging it open, making it slam against the wall. Sure enough, there he was, tall and dark as he'd been the day after she'd moved in.

''Hello, Sherlock Holmes.'' she muttered. ''I'd say that it's a pleasure to see you, but really it isn't.'' Sherlock's brow rose.

''Oh, why is that?'' he wondered, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed.

''Obvious.'' said Janice.

''Oh?''

''I envy you.''

**Sherlock**

Sherlock's expression hardly changed, but his attitude certainly did. Envy him? This was brilliant. He supposed John had been rubbing off on him, because he did his best not to grin smugly.

''I can't say I'm surprised. My deductive skills are obviously superior to yours.''

''Way to be modest.''

''It's the truth.''

''Yes, I realize it's the truth, you idiot!'' Janice snapped, stomping her boot on the wooden floor. This time Sherlock's expression shifted to surprise at her reaction. She let out a sigh and turned away from him. ''Just...Goddammit. I need one. And it's your fault I don't get it!'' she muttered in a tone that sounded absolutely mad to Sherlock. But then again, he had experience with this kind of insanity, since he frequently went through it.

''Need what?'' Sherlock asked.

''A _case_. '' Janice hissed, tugging at her bangs. ''A goddamn case, Holmes. Do you know how long it's been since I had a real, proper case? Not some bullshit about a missing doll or a missing dog, though you can never tell the difference.'' Sherlock made a sound that was a cross between a scoff and a laugh. Janice turned to look at him.

''It may not be as keen or as brilliant as yours, Sherlock Holmes, but my mind needs stimulation. All minds do. Those who refuse to put their mind to work become idiots. Quite willingly, too. It's infuriating.'' Sherlock could only stare at this child, unblinking.

''I don't see how it's my fault, though?'' he said, eyes narrowing dangerously. Janice let out a howl of frustration, stomping over to a desk cluttered with paper and envelopes. None of them had stamps. She pulled a letter out and held it up. He took it, eyes skimming the contents. ''_You're nothing but a poser, a wannabe. You'll never be as good as Holmes. You'll never get a case in a million years. You're just a ridiculous child going through a ridiculous faze, and failing at it._'' he read aloud.

Janice paced the room, looking physically ill as he read. ''You see? No matter what I do-'' she stopped, her voice cracking only slightly as if she was on the verge of tears. Judging by how watery her eyes looked, Sherlock could certainly tell that she was going to cry. He bit his tongue. It wouldn't help to tell her to suck it up.

''Oh, it was a goddamn mistake to come to London and an even bigger mistake to move into this room.'' she said, letting past a drawn out sigh, burying her face in her hands. Sherlock knew she was thinking of how Mrs Hudson had cleaned up 221C, the basement flat, so Janice didn't have to stay in that tiny room and that she felt guilty for saying such things. She looked up. She'd obviously shed one or two tears, but had wiped them on the hands she was now drying on her pants.

''Sorry. Never mind that.'' she snatched the letter from his grasp and tore it into two pieces, throwing them in a pile of paper that met the same fate in the corner. ''What did you want?''

Sherlock certainly did admire the fact that she managed to compose herself before bursting into tears. Girls her age and women in general were particularly not good at that.

''John told me that something was my fault. He was very vague about it.'' he said.

''Well, now you know.'' Janice scoffed, shaking her head. ''Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to be a bit insane and deprived on my own for awhile.'' she said, and Sherlock took it as a not so subtle hint that he was not wanted, so he left.

**Author's Note: Sometimes I don't even know. You may feel like this is moving to quickly, and you're right. But that's the point, dear reader.**


End file.
